


Quo Fata Vocant

by prettysailorsoldier



Series: 221B Mine [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexual John, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Librarians, Libraries, M/M, Matchmaking, Secret Admirer, Tattoos, Teenlock, Unilock, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 08:50:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3375275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettysailorsoldier/pseuds/prettysailorsoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is enamored with one of the employees at the university library, wiling away hours of his days just to catch a glimpse of the dynamic John Watson: captain of the rugby team, event manager for the LGBT society, and third-year medical student. Of course, being only a first-year, it's unlikely John will ever notice him. At least, until fate (and a little well-intentioned meddling) intervenes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quo Fata Vocant

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so there will be at least one more of these that I'll get up soon because it's short, but I wanted you guys to have this one as close to Valentine's Day as I could get it. It's very long, very dirty, very sassy, and a pinch cheese-tastic. It is also inspired by and gifted to my dear friend Marisa, who wanted only a handful of things: confidently bisexual John, outrageous flirting, and a thoroughly smitten Sherlock. I certainly hope I delivered.
> 
> Make sure to find me on [Tumblr](http://thelittlebitofeverythinggirl.tumblr.com/), and there's also a Valentine's Day playlist: [221B Mine](http://8tracks.com/prettysailorsoldier/221b-mine)!

He was two minutes late.

Sherlock tapped anxiously on the binding of his book, eyes shooting side-to-side over the top, scanning the library, but there was no sign of him. Brushing over the surface of his phone, he checked the time again.

4:58. Three minutes late now.

He huffed a sigh, returning to reading the same sentence in…what was this book again?

“Look, Irene, I don’t know what to tell you; they said they couldn’t get the posters done until Thursday.”

Sherlock snapped his head up, turning his face toward the voice as footsteps drew closer across the worn carpet floor.

“I know that’s only two days, but- … He said it was the best he could do. … No, I didn’t try _flirting_ with him, what the hell is wrong with you!? … Yeah, sure, knock yourself out; I’m sure you’ll make his minimum-wage day. ... Alright. …  Yeah, I’ll be there. … Been a delight talking to you too.”

The tip of a trainer appeared first around the base of one of the bookshelves, and Sherlock quickly ducked his head, burying his face in his book as he attempted to look thoroughly occupied.

A heavy sigh cut through the air, the footsteps shaking up the legs of his chair as they moved behind him, and then abruptly stopped at his right shoulder with a rustle of fabric.

“Oh, hey!” a voice spoke down at him in alarm, and Sherlock turned, tipping his face up to the origin. “You’re back!” John Watson said, smiling brightly down at him as he slipped his mobile into the pocket of his dark jeans, a black-and-white-striped jumper peering out from between the open zipper of his signature black jacket. “Thought you might’ve moved on to bigger and better tables,” he added with a playful tilt of his head, and Sherlock chuckled, closing his book as he dropped his face, beating down a blush.

Sherlock had first come into the library three weeks ago looking for a book that had somehow managed to escape the online transition. He’d been using one of the automated kiosks to look it up when John had approached, smiling politely and asking him if he needed any help, and, naturally, he’d suddenly forgotten he was even _in_ a library, let alone how to navigate one, but he didn’t think he could be blamed for that.

John Watson was two years ahead of him at Bart’s, in his third year while Sherlock had just started in the chemistry program. He was studying medicine, was captain of the university rugby team, and was the events manager for the school’s LGBT society. He also happened to work on the library help desk Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from 5pm to close, at which time Sherlock camped out at a table with an ideal view, doing homework in between his staring. They’d talked a bit, casual conversations while John ate lunch or shelved books, but Sherlock would never have guessed that John would notice he’d been gone earlier that week, a fairly impressive flu knocking his legs out from under him, and he suddenly felt feverish all over again.

“No, I- I was just ill,” Sherlock replied, and John frowned, scanning briefly up and down his body.

“Yeah, there has been that flu going around. You’re feeling better now, I take it,” he supposed, and Sherlock nodded, smiling sheepishly down at the table. “You sure?” John pressed, planting his hands on the wood as he leaned down. “Don’t need me to check your pulse? Whip out my stethoscope and listen to your breath sounds?”

“No,” Sherlock chuckled, but John only continued frowning thoughtfully, though a corner of his mouth did twitch.

“Any aches and pains? Feeling at all dizzy or light-headed?” he continued playfully, and Sherlock couldn’t entirely deny the last one, but not for the reasons John meant.

“I’m fine,” he assured, and John grinned, pushing free from the table and starting toward the desk.

“Well, let me know,” he tossed over his shoulder, waving a hand. “Can’t have you fainting on me. Bad for business.”

“Midterms are the week after next,” Sherlock countered, raising his voice as John moved further away. “Half the people in here are unconscious!”

John laughed, shrugging as if to resign the point, and then turned his attention to the girl at the desk, speaking to her briefly as he relieved her of her duties.

She was younger than him, probably closer to Sherlock’s age, and had bright green eyes that shone within a frame of auburn hair. She giggled as John spoke to her, swatting teasingly at his arm, and Sherlock looked away then, swallowing down the bitter jealousy he’d been making a meal of for the past month.

Everyone flirted with John. Everyone. And, though he didn’t seem to notice, John flirted back, laughing at their jokes and making them laugh in turn. It was likely just a holdout from his job with the LGBT society, a certain personableness about him that made you feel like the only one in the room when he was talking to you, but Sherlock still didn’t like it, wanting to _actually_ be the only one in the room with him at all times. Other people couldn’t be trusted. And they kept _touching_ him!

Sherlock glanced up, a spike of nausea shooting up his throat as he watched the girl fuss with the back of John’s jumper, ostensibly tucking in a tag Sherlock knew hadn’t been protruding. Grip tightening on his book, he bowed his head again, trying to read the same blurry sentence several times before giving up, clapping the book shut and rising to standing. He’d picked the book from a shelf a few aisles over, close enough that he wouldn’t miss John when he arrived, but not so close that he could still be seen, and now returned it to its spot before plucking another arbitrary volume from the shelf, leafing through what turned out to be something on the history of radiology.

Sherlock Holmes would never have thought of himself as a jealous person, but, as it turned out, the issue seemed to have more to do with never having anything to be jealous _of_. He wasn’t one to covet, leaving other people to their lives as he preferred them to leave him to his, and there was never anything he had truly wanted that hadn’t been provided for him, his family fairly wealthy and he not exactly having frivolous tastes. Well, except perhaps in suits, but what was the point in having one if you weren’t going to get it custom? No, jealousy’s sharp sting and bitter bile had been entirely unknown to him up until he’d met John Watson, and now… Now it was keeping him up at night, a constant chopping in his stomach like waves upon a wooden hull, beating away at him in ever-present threat of capsize.

He blew out a breath, closing his eyes down at the radiology textbook as he considered yet again that it might help if John knew he was gay.

John was bisexual, that much Sherlock had picked up on between the flirting and several irate phone calls and visits from the brunette hurricane known as Irene Adler, but Sherlock’s personal leanings had never come up. How he was supposed to slip that into conversation, however, he didn’t know, a simple ‘By the way, I’m gay, in case it matters’ not quite seeming appropriate, and, besides, that would require he be able to talk to John without stammering. Which he couldn’t.

When he returned to his table, swapping out the radiology book for something on ancient medical practices—not that he was fishing for common interests or anything—he found the girl had left, John sitting alone behind the desk computer, a small frown creasing at the fold of skin between his brows as his blue eyes darted side-to-side across the screen. A palpable crack fissured across Sherlock chest, and he sat down, opening a notebook to begin looking busy, when he noticed an insulated paper cup had joined his possessions, steam slowly swirling from the small opening in the lid. Leaning forward, he caught a whiff of tea—black tea with milk and sugar, if his senses did not betray—and wrapped his fingers gently around the bottom, slowly dragging the cup toward him.

“It’s not poison,” came a gibe from his right, and Sherlock turned to find John smiling at him around the side of the monitor. “I mean, it’s not exactly PG Tips,” he added with a shrug, “but it probably won’t kill ya.”

“Comforting,” Sherlock quipped back, cradling the cup in his hands, and John beamed, dropping his face and returning to his work. Sherlock wavered a moment, inhaling the scent of the brew, and then, after a deep breath: “Thank you.”

John peered back around the computer, eyes warm over a soft smile. “You’re welcome,” he replied, and, though his voice was loud enough to carry clearly to Sherlock’s ears, it felt soft, a gentle sort of sincerity that wafted through the air like the hint of sugar in the steam rising from Sherlock’s cup.

Sherlock smiled, dropping his head back to his drink as he blushed, and, though he thought he heard John chuckle, the blond had disappeared once again when he looked up, only his striped sleeve visible as it shifted the mouse across the desk. Sherlock sipped at the tea as he went back to his work, smiling secretly to himself, and, though he didn’t normally take milk, he drained every drop.

*********

On Monday, Sherlock was in early, his fears over his table being in jeopardy growing with every day that came closer to exams. He timed his arrival just so, appearing right in the middle of a class change—the people heading to one already gone, and the people just released not yet arrived—and, as such, snagged his table, depositing half of his backpack out over the surface so no one would be tempted to ask if they could use the other side.

John wasn’t in yet, the blond girl who worked before him on Mondays still sitting at the desk picking at her nails, and, with a quick check of his watch, Sherlock decided he had enough time to grab a cup of coffee from the café downstairs before he arrived.

Still, he was quick about it, those few moments John would stop and greet him some of the more precious out of his life, and he was rushing back to his seat minutes later, only slowing when the hot coffee spilled up through the lid and down the side, singeing his skin.

He placed the cup roughly down on the table as he dropped into his chair, sucking the coffee from the side of his finger before waving the hand in the air, hissing at the foolish injury. Shaking his head at himself, he made to pull his chair forward, reaching to open the medical textbook he’d checked out, and then stalled, noticing something protruding from within the pages. With a frown, he peeled open the textbook, revealing a folded sheet of notebook paper tucked into the section on bloodletting—something he hoped had been coincidence rather than design—and lifted it free, opening it with a flick of his fingers, his eyes widening as they landed on even the first word.

_Sherlock,_

_This might be really creepy, but, in the spirit of the season, I thought I’d tell you that seeing you is the only thing that makes spending any time in this library bearable._

_Sincerely,  
Someone who’s really not a psycho, promise_

Sherlock blinked, reading through the note a second time, and then lifted his gaze, scanning quickly around.

There was the girl at the desk, of course, but she didn’t appear to have moved, staring listlessly at the computer screen as she occasionally clicked a button on the keyboard. There was also a young man at a table across the room, but he was quite clearly unconscious, the drool staining the cover of his textbook pillow hardly something anyone in their right mind would conjure up as a ruse if they were leaving secret admirer letters. Which was what this was, he supposed, though he could scarcely believe it.

He read once again over the note, disbelief turning to confusion as his eyes caught on one particular phrase. The spirit of the season?

“Hey!”

Sherlock jumped, hastily folding the page as John rounded the corner, hitching the strap of his backpack up higher on his shoulder. “Hello,” Sherlock replied, wincing in a mental kick to himself as John chuckled.

“Hello?” he mocked, swinging around to Sherlock’s opposite side, and then, for the first time, whipped out the chair on the end of the table, angling it so he could perch on the edge. “You’re awfully formal for a Monday.”

“I thought only Fridays were casual?” Sherlock quipped back, and John laughed, tipping his head.

“Fair enough. So, what are you up to?” he asked, leaning forward as he lifted his chin to read the open page of Sherlock’s book.

“Um, studying,” Sherlock replied, John nodding thoughtfully.

“Bloodletting,” he said, lifting his brows. “Nice.”

“Yes, well, that’s not- That’s more-” he began, and then stopped, closing his lips as he second-guessed the direction of the sentence.

“Personal interest?”

“No,” Sherlock blustered, but John had only been joking, and laughed as he stood up, pushing his chair back in.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” he remarked, smirking when Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Although, I wouldn’t exactly be shocked to find out you were a vampire,” he added with a shrug. “You’re certainly pale enough.”

Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head down at the pages. “I’m not a vampire,” he assured, but John only quirked a brow.

“That’s exactly what a vampire would say,” he challenged, and Sherlock laughed, prompting a grin from the blond. “Well, I’d better go,” he said, shuffling a step back as he pointed a thumb toward the desk. “Everyone wants Friday night or Saturday off, so I’ve gotta make some calls, break some hearts, the usual.”

Sherlock chuckled, his expression quickly turning curious. “Why does everyone want that time off?” he asked, and John stopped, arm falling to his side as he looked incredulously at him.

“Because- You don’t know what Saturday is?” he asked, blinking as Sherlock shook his head. “It’s- It’s Valentine’s Day,” he explained, and Sherlock’s gaze drifted off to the side as he drew in a breath of comprehension.

“Oh,” he said, eyes flicking down to the paper still caught in his hand. Mystery solved.

“You really didn’t know that?” John questioned, and Sherlock flashed up a glare without heat.

“No,” he snipped, and John chuckled. “It’s not exactly something I’ve ever needed to know.”

“You’ve never been dating anyone over Valentine’s Day?” John asked, and Sherlock’s heart stuttered, this likely the best opportunity he’d ever get to let his sexuality slip.

“No, I- Well, I suppose I was with someone last year,” he answered, shrugging a shoulder and trying not to look terrified, “but we didn’t do anything. He had already gone off to university.”

There was a small hitch of John’s eyelids as he blinked, his only reaction before simply nodding sympathetically. “Yeah, long distance is hard, especially with things like that.”

“It wasn’t that,” Sherlock replied easily, shaking his head. “He just didn’t care.”

John’s eyes blinked to the ground, his fingers fidgeting at the cuff of his royal blue jumper. “I’m sorry, I-I didn’t mean-”

“No, it’s fine,” Sherlock urged, waving a hand at him, smiling when John looked up. “I didn’t care either,” he added with a shrug, and John laughed, a single frail puff of air.

“Well, good. I mean, not _good_ , but better than it- Not that that’s ever- Do you know what I’m trying to say, because I’m not sure I do anymore?” John muttered, and Sherlock laughed, nodding at the man’s twisted expression.

“I know what you’re trying to say,” he assured, and John smiled, shoulders lowering in relief.

“Good,” he replied, nodding deeply. “One of us should,” he added, grinning as Sherlock laughed. “Well, I’ll- I’ll see ya later,” he said, flipping a brief wave, and Sherlock smiled, returning the gesture with a nod.

“See ya,” he answered, and then watched as John walked away to the desk, his interaction with the blonde as they switched shifts not hurting quite so much as it normally did.

Looking down, he lifted the folded piece of paper back up in front of him on the tabletop, unfurling the words once more.

_‘seeing you is the only thing that makes spending any time in this library bearable’_

He smiled, a small ember lodging in his heart, warming him through as he refolded the page and tucked it into a pocket of his backpack. Just because it wasn’t going to go anywhere didn’t mean he couldn’t keep a souvenir.

*********

On Tuesday, he actually needed to go to the library, internally bemoaning the fact that it was one of John’s days off all the way to the poetry section, where he’d somehow been roped into picking up a book for Molly that she was worried would be taken by the time she got out of class, an emergency SOS text pinging into his mobile from Studies in International Poetry the second the paper had been assigned.

Resolving himself to not let Molly see his schedule next semester, he begrudgingly weaved his way through the shelves, finally finding the source of his urgent errand, and then racing to the nearest checkout desk, not wanting to accidentally be drawn into conversation with the type of people likely to be mingling about the poetry section. As he approached the counter, his mobile chimed in his pocket, and he withdrew it, placing the book and his student ID on the ledge.

**_Did you get it?_ **

Sherlock rolled his eyes, swiping out a response.

_I got it_ he replied simply, because he wasn’t entirely useless, thank you very much.

**_The love poems one?_ **

_No, the autocorrect to ‘Bermuda’ threw me off and I ended up in travel._

**_Seriously did you find it?_ **

_I found it._

**_You’re an angel! An extremely sarcastic angel!_ **

_You’re welcome._

**_Thank you!_ **

“Pablo Neruda?”

Sherlock’s hands fumbled with his mobile, the plastic suddenly seeming greased as his eyes met unexpected but unmistakable blue ones.

John quirked a brow, waving the book in the air. “I must say, I’m a little surprised.”

“John!” he spluttered, blushing at the octave of his voice, but the owner of the name only smiled benignly, apparently oblivious to his embarrassment. “What are you- It’s Tuesday.”

“Yes,” John drawled, brows lifting even higher as he scanned Sherlock’s book and ID. “That’s what the calendar on my mobile tells me, at least.”

Sherlock just blinked at him, mouth flapping uselessly, and John eventually seemed to take pity, smiling as he handed Sherlock’s book and card back across the counter.

“I switched shifts,” he explained, tipping his head. “I have to leave a few hours early on Friday, so I swapped half my shift with Sarah. She’s the one who works just before me on Fridays,” he added, and Sherlock nodded, smiling through the churning of his stomach as the auburn-haired girl flashed before his eyes.

“Right,” he clipped, wishing he’d noticed John was here _before_ he’d checked the book out, no excuse left now to linger. “Um, why do you have to leave early?” he questioned, and John shrugged.

“Gotta help Irene setup. We have an event that night,” he elaborated, rolling a dismissive hand through the air, and Sherlock nodded, beginning to back away.

“Well, er, good luck with…all that,” he murmured, flicking his fingers in frail gesture, and John smiled, bowing his head in thanks.

“And good luck with your poetry,” John added, nodding down at the book in Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock violently shook his head.

“Oh, no, this-this isn’t mine,” he urged, lifting the book in the air. “I mean, obviously it’s not _mine_ , it’s the library’s, but it’s not _for_ me; it’s-it’s for a friend.”

“For a friend,” John echoed skeptically, eyebrows rising, and Sherlock closed his lips, suddenly aware of how foolish that sounded. John chuckled, turning back to his computer. “Well, tell your _friend_ good luck with his poetry then.”

“Her,” Sherlock corrected, and John lifted his face with a frown. “It’s a girl friend. Not a _girl_ friend!” he amended urgently, lifting his free hand. “It- She’s a platonic female acquaintance,” he spluttered, and John laughed loudly, dropping his face as he shook his head down at the counter.

“Okay,” he chuckled, grin heart-stoppingly brilliant. “Okay, I believe you,” he assured, lifting his hands in resignation, and then just looked at Sherlock a moment, his smile softening. “See you tomorrow, Sherlock,” he bade, dipping a small nod, and Sherlock clipped one back, spinning on his heels and just shy of racing from the library.

He’d come up with thirteen alternate endings for the scene by the time he reached the café he and Molly always met at for lunch after her class, the girl waving a hand at him from a table she’d managed to capture in the corner. Weaving his way through the restaurant packed with students and faculty alike, he collapsed down into the seat opposite her, his usual tomato soup and ham and cheese panini combo already sitting on the table in front of him.

“I thought I’d buy today,” Molly said, shrugging as Sherlock looked up at her, “since you got me my book and everything.”

Sherlock snorted, pulling the book from his bag and passing it across the table to her. “Anything you can do about regaining my dignity?” he muttered, and Molly frowned, quiet for a moment before proceeding to needle him into the whole story, an act he instantly regretted.

“A platonic female acquaintance?” she echoed, voice tart, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, slumping over his half-eaten meal.

“Don’t tell me you’re offended,” he whined, and Molly pursed her lips, leaning back in her chair as her arms crossed over her chest.

“No, I’m not _offended_ ,” she snipped, and Sherlock sighed at the lie. “I just thought we were a bit more than acquaintances.”

Sherlock lowered his laden spoon from his mouth, slowly replacing it into the bowl as he blinked across at her. “Are you saying that you-”

“Oh, god, no!” Molly blurted, chair scraping as he lunged forward, waving a hand at him. “No, I- That’s not at all-”

“Because I’m fairly certain we had a discussion-”

“We did.”

“-that made it incredibly clear-”

“It is!”

“-that I am effectively incapable-”

“Yes, I know, you’re gay!” Molly urged, perhaps a little too loudly, her cheeks darkening as she glanced around, but they’d only drawn a handful of curious stares. “I-I just meant,” she continued, leaning forward as she dropped her voice, “that I thought we were closer than acquaintances.”

“Well, I couldn’t say _friend_ again,” Sherlock grumbled bitterly, and Molly tipped her head, giving him the point. “God,” Sherlock groaned, releasing his spoon as he leaned back in his chair, pressing his fingers down from the bridge of his nose to push across his cheekbones. “I could’ve said anything else, _anything_! Or just nothing at all, nothing at all would’ve worked fine too. But no, I had to make a monumental _cock_ of myself!”

“He might be looking for monumental cocks.”

“Molly,” Sherlock chided, and the brunette chuckled, leaning down to unzip the top of her bag.

“You know what you need?”

“A time machine?”

“Some poetry,” the girl continued, ignoring him as she straightened up, opening the book in front of her.

Sherlock looked between the cover and her face, incredulity growing on his furrowed features. “That is the exact antithesis of-”

“‘Tonight I Can Write’ by Pablo Neruda.”

“Of course it’s by Pablo Neruda; his name’s on the bloody cover!”

“Tonight I can write the saddest lines.”

“He and I both.”

“Write, for example: ‘The night is full of stars, and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.’”

“That’s hardly sad. Melodramatic, perhaps, but not-”

“The night wind whirls in the sky and sings. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.”

“…Damn.”

“I _know_ , right!?” Molly squealed before continuing, and Sherlock let her, smiling softly as her voice picked up greater and greater excitement, and when she insisted on reading ‘just one more’, he nodded, even knowing it would turn into at least five.

*********

“I’m sorry.”

Sherlock lifted his chin, eyes widening as John dropped down into the chair beside him, expression strangely sincere. Sherlock glanced side-to-side, as if hoping the answer would appear from behind a nearby bookshelf. “For what?” he finally asked, and John leaned forward over the table, folding his arms across the surface.

“Yesterday, when you asked what I was doing on Friday,” he replied, and Sherlock quirked a brow, still lost. “I told you I was doing an event, but I didn’t invite you.”

“Oh,” Sherlock muttered, rattling his head down at his book. “No, that-that’s fine, I- You don’t have to-”

“Well, I know I don’t _have_ to,” John interjected over a chuckle, “but I want to. You can bring your platonic female acquaintance,” he added with a smirk, and Sherlock’s temperature skyrocketed as he ducked his flaming face. John laughed, rising from his chair and swinging his backpack back onto his shoulder from the floor. “Irene’s dropping off some flyers for it later; I’ll give you one of those once she shows up,” he promised, and then moved away, smiling over his shoulder before moving behind the desk, and Sherlock thought he curled his lips in response, but he wasn’t thinking too clearly at the moment.

Exactly one minute and thirty seconds later, an amount of time he hypothesized would no longer be perceived as an escape, he escaped, grabbing his mobile and darting toward the encyclopedia section, always the most deserted.

“Sherlock?” Molly’s voice said down the line, and Sherlock huffed, pacing up and down the aisle.

“No, Mick Jagger; of course it’s me! Why have caller ID if you’re not going to look at it?”

“You’ve never called me.”

“Sure I have.”

“No, I’m sure you haven’t.”

“I called when your grandmother died.”

“Well, yeah, but my grandmother had to die.”

“It didn’t have to be your grandmother.”

“Sherlock, why are you calling me?”

“I have…a dilemma,” Sherlock murmured, swallowing stiffly at the admission.

Molly was silent for a long moment, probably from shock if the breathiness of her voice was any indication. “Okay, what-what kind of dilemma?”

“I- John invited me to a…thing Friday night,” he replied, pausing in his pacing to pluck at the frayed binding of one of the Cs.

“A thing?” Molly echoed. “What kind of thing?”

“I don’t know, he hasn’t told me yet.”

“Then maybe you should stop hiding in the encyclopedias so he can tell you.”

“You don’t know I’m hiding in the encyclopedias.”

“First of all, yes, I do, and, second, I don’t know what you’re so upset about. How can you even know it’s a dilemma if you don’t know what it is?”

“Because he said I could bring you,” Sherlock explained, but only silence greeted him. “Molly?”

“I’m just trying to decide if I should be offended or not,” she said, and Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes as he resumed his hurried steps.

“He suggested I bring you,” he began, moving his hands in the air in unseen gestures as he explained, “so, clearly, it doesn’t matter if I’m with someone else, meaning it can’t possibly be intended as a date.”

“You don’t know that,” Molly interjected as Sherlock rattled his head. “Maybe he just wanted to give you an out, you know, in case _you_ didn’t want it to be a date.”

Sherlock bit his lip, considering a moment, and then shook his head. “No, he didn’t say it like that; it was clearly just a casual invitation.”

“Sherlock, I don’t know how to tell you this, but you’re horrible at reading those sorts of signals,” Molly said, and Sherlock’s mouth dropped open. “Remember when I told you that waiter at the café was flirting with you?”

“He was flirting with _you_!”

“His number didn’t end up under _my_ small latte with an extra shot.”

“Medium.”

“What?”

“It was a medium latte.”

“Sherlock.”

“Alright, alright,” he hissed with an irritable huff of breath. “So I’ve misinterpreted a few situations, that doesn’t mean-”

“A _few_!?” Molly blustered, Sherlock pulling the phone away from his ear with a wince. “Sherlock, you wouldn’t notice someone was flirting with you unless they wrote it in the _sky_! And, even then, you’d probably think it meant another Sherlock.”

“I’m still not sure that website was accurate; there’s got to be at least one other-”

“Sherlock.”

“He doesn’t mean it as a date.”

“But how can you _know_ that if you don’t-”

“I just know, alright?” Sherlock snapped, pinching at the bridge of his nose, and, though he hadn’t said it, he could feel Molly knowing anyway in the taut silence.

“Sherlock-”

“Can you come with me or not?” he interjected, and, after a moment, Molly breathed a sigh.

“Friday night?” she asked, and Sherlock nodded, relief beginning to untangle the knot in his chest.

“Yes. He said he’d need to get off a few hours early to help Irene setup, so it probably starts somewhere around 9 or 10.”

“Okay,” Molly agreed, a rustle coming across the line as the phone moved against her nodding head. “Okay, but, Sherlock?”

“Yes?” he replied warily, grip tightening on his mobile.

“If it turns out he does mean it as a date-”

“Molly-”

“ _If_ it turns out he does,” she repeated sharply, startling Sherlock to silent attention, “promise you’ll cancel on me?”

Sherlock hesitated, nibbling anxiously at his lip.

“Sherlock?”

“Yeah, I- Alright,” he agreed, swallowing down his nerves. “I’ll-I’ll cancel on you.”

“Good,” Molly said, notably brighter. “Now, get out of those encyclopedias; I’m pretty sure there’s mold growing in some of those books.”

Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head, but he did shuffle a bit further away from the shelf, the thick coating of dust atop the volumes certainly suggesting it had been a while since they’d been opened. “I’m not even in the encyclopedias.”

“Even over the phone, you can’t lie to me, Sherlock; I’ve known you far too long.”

“Cheers.”

“Oh, you know what I meant,” Molly clipped, and Sherlock laughed into the receiver.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. Thanks, Molly,” he mumbled, the girl’s smile nearly audible in the quiet.

“Any time. Lunch tomorrow?”

“Lunch tomorrow,” Sherlock confirmed, pulling the phone from his ear and tapping the call to a close, and then walked back to his table, stopping to grab a book on Hippocrates along the way to explain his absence.

As he approached his table, he saw John talking with Irene, the brunette president of the LGBT society leaning over the counter to pass up a hefty pile of paper, posters on the bottom and smaller cards on top. His heart flipped in his chest, but knowing Molly was going to accompany him beat down most of the nerves, and he turned his eyes away, focusing instead on the notebook he’d left lying open in front of him. What he hadn’t left was the folded sheet of white paper sitting on top, and quickly snatched it to him, eyes once more searching frantically around.

Once again, however, there was no one, and he tentatively opened the page, blinking in alarm down at the familiar lines, this time printed off a computer in simple black type.

_ XVII _  
_I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,_  
 _or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:_  
 _I love you as one loves certain obscure things,_  
 _secretly, between the shadow and the soul._

_I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries_  
 _the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,_  
 _and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose_  
 _from the earth lives dimly in my body._

_I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,_  
 _I love you directly without problems or pride:_  
 _I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,_  
 _except in this form in which I am not nor are you,_  
 _so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,_  
 _so close that your eyes close with my dreams._

Sherlock stared at the message an untold amount of time, and then heaved in a gasp, his lack of breathing catching up to him with a stitch of pain. Slowly, hands shaking, he pulled out his mobile, sending a quick text to Molly.

_That waiter doesn’t work at the café anymore does he?_

**_No. Why?_ **

_No reason_

The phone lit up again, but Sherlock ignored it for the moment, reading once again over the sonnet, one he recognized from the collection Molly had read him on Tuesday. It was supposedly one of Neruda’s more famous works, not that Sherlock had ever heard of it, but, still, it couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?

He lifted his face again, leaning back in the chair almost dangerously in an effort to see more of the library. He didn’t recognize anyone who had been at the café while he and Molly were there, but, then again, he hadn’t really been looking, not expecting his secret admirer to have been among the patrons. Unless his secret admirer had graduated from happenstance observer to full-blown stalker…

_‘Someone who’s really not a psycho, promise’_

The words rose up again in Sherlock’s mind as he looked down at the latest message, and he bit his lip, considering. A lot of people did go to that café, and he and Molly had been there almost two hours. Anyone could have come in and heard them, or even just seen the cover of the book she had quite clearly been reading to him. It didn’t necessarily have to be a crazy person who wanted to make shoes out of his skin, and the first note had seemed sincere. Maybe Molly was right: He was horrible at knowing people were flirting with him.

“Okay, so,” said a voice at his right, and he jumped, hiding the message under the table as John approached, “here’s a card.” He passed down a small slip of paper, black with white and red writing in what he was sure was supposed to be an eye-catching font. “It has the time and address and everything on it, but I wrote my number on the back just in case you get lost,” John added, shrugging a shoulder, evidently oblivious to any reason why this would make Sherlock’s throat close up. “It’s just a party, sort of a mixer type thing. And, of course, we’re always recruiting for the society,” he tossed in with a wink that Sherlock might have hallucinated. “Irene wanted to do a theme, though, so it’s technically a traffic light party.”

“A what?” Sherlock muttered, looking down at the invitation, and then turned his attention back to John as the blond chuckled.

“It’s sort of corny,” he said with a tip of his head, “but her other idea was Gatsby, so we didn’t have much choice. Either way she gets her green light, I suppose.” He laughed, Sherlock chuckling along as he made a mental note to ask Molly what the hell he had missed. “So, basically, you wear different colors based on your relationship status,” John explained, rolling a hand through the air, and, though it may have been a mere trick of the light, Sherlock thought John’s cheeks darkened a shade. “Red if you’re taken, yellow if it’s sort of an ‘it’s complicated’ type situation, and green if you’re single.” He shrugged, looking down at the invitation in Sherlock’s hand. “I’d tell you you don’t have to participate, but it’ll be mostly us there, and we all have to, so it might be a little awkward for you if you don’t.”

“No, I- It’s fine,” Sherlock assured, flicking his eyes between John and the invitation. “I just…don’t know what to wear,” he mumbled, frowning at the strangeness of the sentence as it met his own ears, and then his gaze was drawn up by John’s laughter.

“Well, in my opinion,” he said, lifting his brows as his eyes turned sharp, something almost predatory glinting across his gaze, a danger Sherlock wanted to jump headlong into, “you’d look best in green.”

Sherlock’s lips dropped apart, eyes widening as a rushing sound swept up into his ears, and then the pounding of his heart broke through, thumping violently against his eardrums.

A corner of John’s mouth lifted, smearing a crooked smirk across his face, and then he moved away, walking back to the help desk, Sherlock only barely managing to drop his eyes from the back of his head before he turned around.

He swallowed down at the table, heart thundering so violently, it was shaking all the way down to his fingers as he looked back to the invitation in his hand. It was then he noticed the poem still in his opposite hand, the two pieces of paper poised side-by-side in his lap, a physical representation of his decision. He bit his lip, momentarily torn, and then, unthinkingly, turned the party invitation over in his hand.

John’s mobile number stared back at him, ten numbers neatly sketched in thin blue ink, and, just like that, it was clear.

Yes, the secret admirer thing was romantic, poetry and all, and, no, Sherlock did not believe they were anything close to a psycho, but, on the literal other hand, John Watson had given him his phone number. And invited him to a party. And told him to wear green.

Only human after all, as it turned out, Sherlock neatly folded the sonnet, sliding it in next to the first note with only a small sting of guilt, a feeling quickly assuaged as he lifted the invitation onto the table beside him, John’s number facing up. Lifting his mobile, he typed out a message, trying not to smile too saccharinely to himself.

_Consider yourself cancelled on_

Seconds later, the phone lit up with Molly’s reply.

**_IS IT WEIRD THAT I’M CRYING A LITTLE WITH PRIDE!??!!_ **

_Yes._

**_THEN I’M NOT DOING THAT!!_ **

Sherlock laughed, inappropriately loud for the setting, and quickly clapped a hand to his mouth, looking around to see if anyone had noticed. He met only John’s eyes, however, one eyebrow quirking as he peered around the computer, and Sherlock flushed, lowering his hand to reveal an apologetic grimace.

John grinned, and then rolled his eyes, shaking his head fondly as he returned to his work, and Sherlock was quite certain he could have gone the rest of the day without his coat, his body warmed from within by the glow of the memory.

*********

“I can’t do it.”

“Do it!”

“I can’t!”

“Yes you fucking can!”

“Molly!”

“Sorry, I got caught up in the moment.”

Sherlock huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he paced in front of the building.

The party was being held at a restaurant and bar near the university, the building frequently rented out for school activities due to its proximity, as well as the fact that it had recently been renovated, adopting more of a night club atmosphere after 11pm. The party had started at 9, and was set to go until 2am, when the place closed, so Sherlock had arrived at precisely 9:45, not wanting to seem too eager, but also not wanting to seem disinterested. Of course, it was now 9:53 because he couldn’t for the life of him open the door.

“What if he doesn’t like me?”

“He already likes you.”

“What if he suddenly _realizes_ he doesn’t like me?”

“You’re right, that could totally happen; you should go home.”

“Molly!”

“See, even you think that’s ridiculous!”

Sherlock snarled, rattling his head as he spun on his heels, pacing the opposite direction, but he’d been caught, and he knew it. “What about that person leaving me notes?” he spat, desperate to gain ground, but Molly only scoffed.

“What about ‘em?”

“Well, isn’t this a little insensitive?” he challenged, waving a hand at the building behind him, music thumping out the windows high overhead. “Going on a date when they went to all that trouble?”

“To copy and paste a poem?”

“I’m just saying-”

“You’re just stalling is what you’re doing.”

“No, I-”

“Sherlock Holmes!” Molly cried, startling him to a halt. “You are my best friend, and you are brilliant, but you are being a _moron_ right now!”

Sherlock’s eyes bulged, his mouth dropping open, but all he could do was make nonsensical squeaking sounds before Molly started in again.

“Yes, the notes were sweet, and, yes, they’re probably not from an axe murderer, but you have been pining over Captain Dewey Decimal for _months_!”

“It’s been five weeks!”

“Well, it _felt_ like months from where I was standing!” Molly railed, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, falling silent again under the lashing, although Molly was quiet for a time too, the tension between them slowly tapering away. “Seb was an ass,” she said suddenly, and Sherlock frowned, taken aback.

“What?” he muttered, but Molly barged ahead.

“I never liked him. None of us did.”

“Who’s ‘us’?”

“Literally everyone.”

“I don’t see what that-”

“It has everything to do with this.”

“Why?”

“Because you deserved better,” she said, so simple it hurt, and Sherlock flinched as his breath rolled out in front of him, a ghost in the bitter evening air. “You did, and you do, and just because one person didn’t see that doesn’t change anything. People being too stupid to know what they have doesn’t make you worth any less.”

Sherlock could not reply, just breathed down the line as Molly’s words rolled over him, built up in him, straightening his spine and steadying his heart.

“Stop talking yourself out of the good things just because you can’t believe they’re happening to _you_ ,” she said softly, and Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed, a swallow bobbing down his throat.

“Thanks, Graham Stanier,” he muttered, and Molly chuckled softly.

“Don’t mention it. Now, get your emerald ass in there and make me proud!”

“Are you sure it’s not too blue of a green?” he asked, plucking at the fabric of the cashmere scoop neck Molly had dragged him out yesterday to buy.

“You ever seen a blue traffic light?”

“No.”

“Then I’m sure people will know what it is. Now _go_!”

“Alright, alright,” Sherlock hissed, rattling his head as he headed toward the door.

“Knock ‘em dead!” Molly chirped, and then she was gone, the phone beeping her absence as Sherlock locked the screen, sliding it into his pocket.

His hand on the door handle, the closest he’d ever gotten, he took a deep breath, fingers tapping on the metal as he wavered. “Fuck it,” he snapped at himself, and then swung the door outward, charging inside.

It was an anticlimactic start to say the least, a large man at the door stopping him with a hand levelled at his chest. “ID,” he said blandly, and Sherlock turned up to him, mouth opening in affront.

“Seriously?” he blustered, but the man only lifted his brows, and Sherlock dropped his hand to his back pocket, fishing out his wallet.

The man gave his ID a cursory glance, and then allowed him in with a jerk of his thumb, Sherlock rolling his eyes as he put his wallet away, although, he supposed, he was only a month into 19, and always had looked young for his age. Still, though, 17? Really?

“Well, what do we have here?”

Sherlock turned to find Irene Adler’s eyes on him, the woman clad in a tight green dress that left very little to the imagination, a glowing green necklace flashing around her neck in case you missed the first hint.

“I was wondering if you’d show up,” she said, red lips curving up in a smile that immediately set Sherlock on edge. “John was starting to get restless. And Kate owes me ten quid.”

“Sorry?” Sherlock questioned, and the brunette grinned, eyes glinting with a knowing that made Sherlock simultaneously want to ask and run.

“Nothing to worry your pretty little head over,” she dismissed, airily waving a hand, and then lifted a brow, her eyes perusing his ensemble.

“Nice shirt,” she said, though clearly saying something else. “Really brings out your eyes.”

Sherlock narrowed the aforementioned eyes, searching over her face. “Thanks,” he replied sharply, and Irene laughed, shaking her head at him.

“John said I’d like you,” she remarked, bobbing a nod at him.

Sherlock only lifted a brow. “And do you?” he asked, and Irene beamed at him.

“Haven’t decided,” she answered, and Sherlock was just opening his mouth to demand some real answers when John appeared, wearing a forest green jumper and a brilliant grin.

“You made it!” he cried, stopping rather abruptly in front of him, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides like he didn’t know quite what to do with them. “Thought you might’ve gotten lost.”

“No, I just…had a few things to finish up,” Sherlock replied, forcing a smile, but he could see Irene’s brow rising in his peripheral vision.

“Well, better late than never!” John chirped, untroubled. “Come on, let me show you around!”

Sherlock smiled, stepping forward, and then turned his eyes to Irene. “It was nice meeting you,” he said politely, bowing his head, and a corner of Irene’s mouth twitched in response.

“Was it?” she quipped, and Sherlock, after a moment’s hesitation, let his mask fall.

“No, not particularly,” he answered with a rattle of his head and a sarcastic smile, and Irene blinked, momentarily startled before she threw her head back and laughed.

“Come on,” John beckoned, jerking his head out toward the room as he placed a light hand on Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock allowed himself to be steered away, perplexed by the wink Irene flashed him as he departed. “Sorry about that,” John muttered up into his ear, his hand regretfully falling away. “I told her to watch for you while I was helping restock the bar. Last resort, I swear.”

Sherlock laughed, shaking his head. “No, it’s- You were watching for me?” he asked, frowning down, but John, far from looking embarrassed, only smiled, looking somewhat perplexed.

“Of course,” he said, and Sherlock nearly stumbled. “I invited you. Wouldn’t be very good manners to let you wander around on your own.”

“I probably know…someone,” he muttered, though, at a cursory glance, that appeared to be a lie. “You don’t have to stay with me.”

“Why do you keep assuming I don’t want to be around you?” John asked bluntly, no jest on his expression when Sherlock snapped down to it, thunderstruck.

“I-I don’t, I just-”

“Oh, John, thank god!” A petite redhead rushed forward, her neon green bra glowing from atop a black long-sleeved shirt. “Craig can’t figure out how to change the thermostat.”

“What?” John blustered, shaking his head. “It’s one button! How could he possibly-”

“I don’t know!” the girl huffed, rolling her eyes as she whipped her arms in a frustrated gesture. “I don’t know, alright?! All I know is that it’s sitting at 65 degrees and dropping, and we don’t have near enough bodies in here to make _that_ work.”

“Alright, alright, I’m coming,” John urged, casting an apologetic glance up at Sherlock, and then looked back to the girl, a frown forming on his face. “Wasn’t that bra red earlier?”

“Yeah,” the girl responded tartly, folding her arms, “it was. Until Irene showed up dressed like the world’s sluttiest elf.”

“Kate-”

“Fucking lepre-cunt.”

“Okay!” John cajoled, spinning Kate around and pushing her by the backs of her shoulders, casting Sherlock a wide-eyed look while he just tried not to laugh. “Let’s go fix us a thermostat!”

Kate cast a glare over her shoulder, and then began moving away, John shaking his head at her wonderingly.

“I’m sorry about that too,” he muttered, and Sherlock lost it, bursting into laughter as John grimaced apologetically up at him. “Just…for the record.”

Sherlock shook his head, clearing his throat. “It’s fine,” he assured, and John’s chagrin slowly shifted to a hesitant smile.

“Alright, well, the bar’s over there,” he said, pointing through the crowd. “If you wanna grab something while I prevent the next ice age.”

“Okay,” Sherlock chuckled, nodding, and John smiled, beginning to retreat after Kate.

“Okay, well, I’ll- I’ll be right back,” he muttered, flashing one last curve of his lips before twisting around, vanishing into the crowd a moment later.

Sherlock shook his head, still chuckling to himself as he made his way to the bar, reading off the name of the first beer he saw to the bartender, who nodded, bending down to lift a pale brown bottle up from beneath the bar, water still trickling down the side from where it had been submerged in ice. Sherlock took it, nodding to the man in thanks before turning out, the bar digging into his spine as he looked over the room.

It wasn’t quite as crazy as he’d expected, though the music was predictably too loud and the lights a touch too energetic, but everyone was still upright, most people mingling around the edges of the dance floor as opposed to right in the thick of it. Then again, it was only 10.

Sherlock lifted the cold bottle to his lips, taking in a swig of the amber liquid. It was beer, that’s about all he could say for certain, alcohol never something he’d had any interest in becoming a connoisseur of, but his tolerance was reasonable, and there was nothing wrong with a little liquid courage.

“Hey.”

Sherlock turned toward the unfamiliar voice, bored already, and the cheesy smile beneath glassy brown eyes wasn’t helping matters, an object lesson in the dangers of too much liquid courage. “Hi,” he answered tonelessly before looking away the direction John had gone, but his attention was drawn back by a vibration of the bar behind him.

“All by yourself?” the man asked, leaning down from where he rested against the bar at Sherlock’s right, and Sherlock shuffled back, looking at him properly.

He was older than Sherlock, probably even older than John, although not by much. He had dark brown hair cut neatly around his face, styled excessively to look like he just woke up that way, and was wearing a bright green V-neck jumper that dipped just low enough to hint at a smattering of chest hair. He was also rather drunk, what Sherlock would guess was whiskey rolling out of his mouth with every breath, and the scientist in him wanted to light a match just to see what would happen.

“No,” Sherlock clipped, shaking his head as he looked away once again, and then startling another several inches away as the man’s deep chuckle sounded far too close to his ear.

“You look all by yourself,” he said, Sherlock giving up on passive aggressive and narrowing his eyes at him.

“I’m waiting for someone,” he snapped, but the man only laughed.

“Well, of course you are!” he chimed, Sherlock matching his approach with another retreat. “Me!”

Sherlock laughed, a single sharp bark, and the man, even in his drunken state, frowned, clearly catching the mock.

He rallied, though, hitching up a leer and leaning forward once again, Sherlock quickly running out of room as he neared other patrons. “Come on, let me buy you a drink.”

“I have a drink.”

“Let me buy you another, then.”

“Only need the one, thanks.”

“Gonna need more than that if you wanna have a good time.”

“I suppose I’ll have to settle for mediocre, then.”

“You don’t have to settle, sweetheart; I’m right here!”

“Did your brain seriously just give your mouth permission to form those words?”

“Oh, come on, don’t be like that! We were having a good time!”

“If you’re including me in that ‘we’, I regret to inform you you’re woefully misguided.”

“Why do you talk so fast?”

“Why do you think so slow?”

“What did you say to me!?”

“Pretty sure he said you’re slow.”

Sherlock turned, eyes widening as they landed on John, who drew up to stand in front of him, arms crossed as he stared down the man, who had at least enough common sense left to lean back.

John looked at him out of the corner of his eye, a silent check, and Sherlock bobbed a small nod, the set of John’s shoulders relaxing slightly in response.

“Hey, mate, take it easy, alright?” the man grumbled lifting his hands as he retreated from Sherlock’s side. “‘S not my fault. He’s the one wearing a green shirt.”

“I hate to be the one to break this to you,” John said with mock sincerity, tipping his head as he passed Sherlock, standing between him and the man, “but not everyone wearing a green shirt is going to want to sleep with you. In fact, most of them probably won’t even wanna talk.”

“Who the _fuck_ do you think you-”

“The man running this event, so, if you don’t want to get thrown out on your pompous ass, I suggest you walk away and not inflict your company on any other unwilling participants,” John snapped, eyes steady on the man, who shrunk under the gaze, eyes blinking as he shuffled away. “Am I clear?” he clipped with a threatening tilt of his head, and the man’s jaw set, a swallow moving down his throat as he looked between John and Sherlock.

“Yeah,” he muttered, nodding. “Yeah, we’re clear.”

“Great!” John chirped, the jovial sound falling like a hammer blow between them, and the man flinched appropriately. “You’re dismissed,” John added, flicking his fingers at him, and he quickly turned around, disappearing off into the crowd.

Sherlock didn’t move, staring at the sliver of John’s face he could see as he watched the man’s shoulders rise and fall with his breaths. “John?” he said softly after a long moment, and John froze a second before spinning sharply around, grabbing Sherlock by the wrist.

“Come with me,” he snapped, as if Sherlock had any choice, and he stayed pinned close to John’s back as they crossed the club.

When they reached the opposite wall, John threw open a door, releasing Sherlock’s arm and beckoning him inside, and Sherlock stepped through the opening, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the surroundings: a collection of massive stage lights, wires, and control panels stacked on shelves all around him.

“Stay here,” John said, his stern posture silhouetted in the doorway against the backdrop of the flashing club lights, “and don’t…talk to anyone.”

“In a closet?” Sherlock countered, but John didn’t seem to hear him, flicking the closet light on before pushing the door shut with an echoing bang.

Sherlock was still a moment, staring at the space John had just occupied as he tried to piece together what was happening. Was John mad at him? Did he think Sherlock had had something to do with that man flirting with him? But surely it had been obvious Sherlock hadn’t had any interest, and John had said unwilling participants. He hadn’t done anything wrong, he hadn’t, and he was all ready to defend himself when John came bursting back in, closing the door behind him before twisting around.

“Put this on,” he ordered, waving a red bundle of fabric at him, and Sherlock frowned, his speech dying on his tongue.

“What?” he questioned, perplexed, shaking his head dazedly between the cloth and John’s face. “Why?”

“Because it’s red and it has my name on the back,” John said stiffly, and Sherlock’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. John stared at him a moment, and then sighed, the fury in his eyes faltering as he shook his head down at the floor. “Look, I-I had a speech,” he began, gesticulating with the garment, something Sherlock saw upon closer inspection was a hooded sweatshirt, the Bart’s rugby symbol displayed on what must be the front. “It was all planned out, and it was romantic as _fuck_ , but-but if anyone else _flirts_ with you, I’m going to strangle them with my bare hands,” he snarled, tone quick and stilted, and Sherlock was still nowhere near comprehending as John sighed, running his free hand back through his hair as he began to pace in the narrow space. “And I know, I _know_ I sound like a completely irrational, possessive _nutjob_ right now,” he urged, eyes earnest as they burned into him, “but-but I- Well, I _feel_ like a completely irrational, possessive nutjob right now, so will you just- Can you please-” He waved the sweatshirt at him, an expression of utter loss on his face, and Sherlock couldn’t tear his eyes away, could barely breathe, let alone move his hands.

He wanted to though, wanted to snatch that sweatshirt and stitch it into his skin so no one could ever take it away, take John away, take this angels-floating-down-from-heaven-and-singing-the-hallelujah-chorus moment away, but, as he stood there, slack-jawed and staring, John couldn’t know any of that.

The blond blinked, a soft gasp of horror hissing past his lips as he lowered his arm, eyes blinking down to the floor in astonishment. “Oh my god,” he breathed, shaking his head in clear misinterpretation of Sherlock’s reaction, and, suddenly, Molly’s words came roaring back to beat against his ears.

_‘Stop talking yourself out of the good things just because you can’t believe they’re happening to you.’_

“God, I-I’m sorry, I- I don’t know what-”

Later, John would claim he jumped on him, but Sherlock thought lunge to be the more appropriate word, his body sweeping across the space between them in a single stride. He crashed against John, the blond’s arms instinctively encircling his waist to catch him as Sherlock’s hands found his chin, tipping it up and pulling their lips together, John’s soft gasp vibrating between them.

For a split second, just long enough to feel the beginning spike of panic, but not so long to yet understand why, John did nothing, simply holding Sherlock to him as Sherlock pushed against his mouth, and then, tentatively, his shifted his lips, even that small movement sending a shiver shooting up Sherlock’s spine. A blink later, however, and his shiver turned into a gasp, one of John’s arms tightening around his waist while the other lifted, tan fingers tangling in Sherlock’s hair, pulling him close and tilting him slightly as he fit their mouths more firmly together.

Sherlock wasn’t exactly inexperienced, but he hadn’t a prayer of taking the reins from John Watson, the blond almost frustratingly talented, never giving away too much as he kept Sherlock chasing, which was why he was entirely to blame for the whine that ground up from Sherlock’s throat, his fingers clawing in John’s hair with desperation.

John, for his part, only smiled against Sherlock’s mouth, and then, with painful deliberation, licked a slow wet stripe across Sherlock’s lower lip, the younger boy a trembling mess by the time he reached the opposite side.

A second later, he was spinning, twisted around and pushed backward to collide heavily with the closet door, but he didn’t even get time to gasp properly before John was atop him again, tongue pushing past his teeth as it swirled against his own. Sherlock pressed back, albeit a bit less skillfully, his mind somewhere a little further south, but John didn’t seem to mind, hand sliding in a slow firm press down Sherlock’s side.

When he reached his hip, he pulled away from Sherlock’s mouth, drawing a whimper that quickly turned into a moan as he bit at Sherlock’s lip, tugging lightly before releasing, and then moved on to his neck, lips sucking at skin from the hollow beneath his ear to his collarbone.

Sherlock couldn’t see straight, eyes blinking up at the single bulb overhead as he watched it turn into two and back again, and then closed his eyes altogether as John scraped his teeth over a collarbone, soothing the sting with his tongue while Sherlock bucked against him, no longer caring for propriety. His cock ground against John’s hip through his jeans, John’s matching erection sliding over Sherlock’s thigh in the same movement, and the blond pulled away with a gasp, lifting his forehead to push against Sherlock’s as they breathed one another, noses brushing side-by-side.

After a moment, John swallowed, and Sherlock expectantly fluttered open his eyes. “This is probably really forward,” John panted, lips brushing Sherlock’s with the words, “but I live just up the road. By myself.”

Sherlock’s eyelids pinched shut, a steadying swallow moving down his throat as he shuddered. “God, yes,” he rushed, pulling John in by the jumper for a stingingly rough kiss, and then pushed him away, spinning around to open the door. He staggered a moment, the lights and sounds of the club suddenly deafening now that they were no longer filtered, but then John appeared at his side, gentle fingers intertwining with his as he moved forward, guiding Sherlock through the crowd, and they reached the door in a matter of seconds, John evidently knowing some sort of secret passage through the dance floor.

John didn’t let go of his hand as they burst out into the waning winter night, Sherlock drinking in a hefty gulp of the damp air, and then turned, smiling deliriously across at the blond. John blinked at him, just one slow rise and fall of his eyelids, and then tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hand, eyes facing forward as he quickened his strides.

It didn’t take long before they were running, hands swinging together all the while as they laughed their way up the stairs to John’s flat, and then crashed through the door, John crowding Sherlock up against the wooden surface as he pushed it shut, tossing the red rugby sweatshirt still clutched in his hand over the back of the sofa.

With his now-free hand, he latched the deadbolt, lifting the fingers intertwined with Sherlock’s to slam against the door, pinning Sherlock’s hand alongside his head as he slotted their mouths back together. He then disentangled his digits, pushing down along Sherlock’s palm to his wrist as Sherlock whined, trying to grind up against him, but John gripped hard to his hip, forcing him back as he lifted his lips away.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asked, the words gusting over Sherlock’s face in unfair distraction. “I mean, we can just- I wasn’t expecting anything. We don’t have to-”

“I know we don’t have to,” Sherlock interjected, blinking in a conscious effort to focus on John’s eyes. “I want to,” he said, trying to look rational even as he shook with lust. “I really, _really_ want to,” he breathed, tipping his chin to try and recapture John’s mouth, but John twisted away, not a rejection so much as a stalling.

“Sherlock, you’re not listening,” he said sternly, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, tugging his hand free from John’s grip. John shifted a small distance back in response, breaking the contact between them as he steadily met Sherlock’s eyes. “I don’t want you to think- I don’t wanna take anything,” he said, shaking his head, and Sherlock frowned, trying to puzzle the situation out in his heavy blue gaze.

“Is this a virginity conversation?” he muttered, waving a hand between them, and John twisted away, physically recoiling from the words. “Because that ship has sailed. Sailed and sunk and been thoroughly torn apart by those underwater robots that find hundred-year-old forks and such.”

“No, this is not a- It’s not about that,” John snipped, blushing brightly as he shook his head. “I-I just- You’re 19.”

“London receives an average of 601 millimeters of rainfall a year.”

“What?”

“Oh, sorry, I thought we were sharing random irrelevant facts.”

“Sherlock-”

“John, I’m not a _child_ ,” Sherlock urged, brow furrowing as he stepped forward off the door. “I know Santa Claus isn’t real, my pet rabbit didn’t really go live on a farm, and my mother didn’t buy all my biscuits at the primary school bake sale because she didn’t want to share, she did it to save lives,” he listed, and John laughed, shaking his head down at the floor.

“Well, you never know about the rabbit.”

“Don’t humor me,” Sherlock snipped, and John laughed again, lifting the backs of his fingers to his mouth. It then fell silent, Sherlock shuffling closer as John refused to meet his eyes. “The point is, I’m not- I know you’re not going to fall in love with me,” he said softly, and John abruptly lifted his face, eyes widening as they blinked. “I’m not expecting anything. You don’t have to tiptoe around my feelings like I’m some sort of-”

“Stop,” John interjected, lifting a hand, and then blew out a breath, shaking his head as he lowered his arms to his sides. “That is not at _all_ what I was going to say.”

Sherlock blinked, frowning across at him, and John stepped forward, swallowing down at their fingers as he latched his right hand to Sherlock’s left.

“I didn’t mean- I’m not tiptoeing around your feelings, Sherlock,” he whispered, slowly lifting his chin to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “I’m tiptoeing around mine.”

Sherlock felt his body slump, limp with shock as he watched John sigh, looking once more to their hands as he twisted them in his grasp.

“I-I don’t want this to be just tonight,” he continued, shaking his head down at the ground. “Or just anything, really, I want- I want it all,” he breathed, and Sherlock gasped, stunned still by the blue of his eyes when they lifted. “But you’re- You’re young, and-and you shouldn’t- I don’t wanna trap you into something you’re not ready for. And I can’t- I can’t do the whole one night stand thing, not with you, and it’s fine if that’s what you want right now, but I’m not-”

“Okay.”

John stopped, lips pressing together as his forehead creased in a frown. “Okay?” he echoed, and Sherlock nodded, squeezing back against his hand.

“Okay,” he repeated, barely a breath between them, and John scanned furtively between his eyes, searching for the lie.

“Are you sure you understood what I-”

“Yes.”

“Because I’m not sure you fully-”

“I do.”

“But, just to be completely clear-”

“John?”

“Yes?”

Sherlock smiled, a soft laugh hissing through his nose as he looked down, tracing his thumb across John’s skin. “I’m not in the library Tuesdays and Thursday,” he murmured, looking through his lashes as John’s face slowly shifted into a grin, and then the blond lifted his empty hand, clutching it around the back of Sherlock’s neck as he pulled him down to meet his lips.

The kiss was slower now, a certain care to it that made Sherlock dizzy, but, quite quickly, it wasn’t enough, and he scraped his teeth across John’s bottom lip as he whined, pulling at the hem of John’s jumper.

John chuckled, something Sherlock would hopefully remember to be offended about later, and then stepped back, pulling his own jumper and undershirt off in a single smooth stroke.

Sherlock tried to take it all in, but was afforded only a few seconds before John pulled him in again, not nearly enough time to properly appreciate the smooth tan skin stretched across firm planes of muscle, as well as a small smear of something black on his left shoulder Sherlock couldn’t manage to identify beyond it not being a shadow. He couldn’t be too upset about it though, because, though he couldn’t see it, he could feel John pressed up against him, body warm even through Sherlock’s jumper, and snaked a pale trembling hand up between them, resting over the base of John’s neck, just low enough to feel the rumble of his heart.

John pulled his body away then, though he kept his lips latched to Sherlock’s, and twisted his fingers into the base of Sherlock’s emerald jumper, pulling up with inching movements that made Sherlock’s head spin. Where John had been quick about his own clothing, he was slow with Sherlock’s, removing the jumper and undershirt as two separate layers, and, at some point, John’s hand occasionally drifting down to his hip to guide him this way or that, they ended up in the doorway of John’s bedroom, John leaning him back against the doorjamb as he whipped his white shirt free from his face and arms.

Sherlock blinked, befuddled by the sudden stillness, and then frowned, tilting his head as he brought John’s face into focus. “John?” he questioned, and the blond seemed to startle, jolting slightly as he tore his eyes back up to Sherlock’s.

Light was dim coming in through John’s curtains, the glow of the streetlamps tinted slightly blue by the fabric, and maybe that was why John’s eyes looked so dark, blown out to navy as they froze Sherlock to the spot, stealing his breath and singeing his skin.

He swallowed, immediately self-conscious. “What?” he murmured, folding in one of his shoulders in a small attempt to shield himself, but John stopped him, eyes dropping to Sherlock’s lips as he pressed his thumb across the seal of his mouth.

Gently, the rest of John’s fingers pushed at the underside of his chin, tilting it up from where Sherlock was trying to make himself smaller, and another swallow bobbed down Sherlock’s throat at the sudden exposure, John following the movement down his neck. He then turned his gaze up to Sherlock’s face once more, eyes pouring over every millimeter as his thumb stroked in a slow circle around Sherlock’s mouth. “God, you’re beautiful,” he breathed, Sherlock’s eyelids fluttering shut as the words brushed up his cheeks in a stroke of warm air, and John’s hand slipped back along his jaw, fingertips pushing into his hair as he kissed him, hard and claiming, and it was all Sherlock could do to stay upright as John pulled him away, backing him toward the bed.

Sherlock’s knees hit the mattress, and he tumbled backward, landing atop the duvet in a puff of displaced air as John chuckled from somewhere above him, the bed dipping with his weight as he leaned over him. A hand pushed lightly at his waist, and Sherlock took the hint, shuffling further up the mattress, their lips breaking here and there when it couldn’t be helped, until his head reached the pillow, where he stopped, gripping tight into John’s hair with one hand while the other clutched into his back.

John kept most of his weight off him, balanced on his knees and arms as he hovered over Sherlock, and it was almost more maddening _not_ to be touching him, the heat radiating off John’s torso to just graze the surface of Sherlock’s slender one. Still, not touching is only fun for so long, and, as John dropped a particularly rough bite to the corner of his lower lip, Sherlock couldn’t help but gasp, hips lifting as his neck bent back.

John’s breath hitched as Sherlock’s clothed cock brushed against his thigh, and then he ducked his mouth to Sherlock’s neck, moving lower in slow scrapes of teeth and swipes of tongue as Sherlock writhed beneath him, all-but gone from the world. John then had the cruelly brilliant idea to swirl his tongue around Sherlock’s nipple, prompting a shout and a spasm, heat shooting down in a sharp strike to the pit of his stomach, and the blond chuckled against his chest, the smug smile visible in Sherlock’s mind’s eye.

Though unseen, Sherlock glowered at the ceiling all the same, giving John’s hair a firm tug and a twist, and the man hissed in faint pain before continuing his work, moving slowly down Sherlock’s abdomen until he reached the line of his jeans, fingers just barely hooking over the waistband to brush the sensitive skin beneath. Sherlock could feel John looking at him, but couldn’t command his body to move right away, several trembling breaths dragging in and out before he could drop his chin, finding John’s eyes through the haze of impatient want.

John tilted his head just slightly, an almost imperceptible quirk of his brows passing up in silent question, and Sherlock nodded, a shiver running all the way down to his toes as John looked away.

The clinking of his belt was deafening in the stillness, and he could feel his heart quickening with panic, a million different ways he could ruin this rushing through his head, but then John dragged down his zipper, grinding a palm down over his cock through the fabric of his boxers, and there was no room to even think anymore, let alone be afraid. There was plenty of room to be frustrated, however, and he whined and whimpered in ways he’d probably be horribly embarrassed of in the morning as John slid his jeans and boxers down in tandem, taking far too long as far as Sherlock—or any reasonable person, he’d imagine—was concerned. He tried to wriggle free, shuffling up the bed or pushing at the fabric with his hands to hurry things along, but John halted his efforts every time, batting his hand away or pinning him into place with a heavy hand to his hip, and Sherlock more token struggled after that, just enough to earn a little manhandling.

When his clothing finally fell loose from his ankles, he nearly wept with relief, dragging the side of his calf up John’s hip in gesture for him to get the hell back up here already, but John ignored him, remaining kneeling between Sherlock’s ankles as he delicately rolled down one of his socks, pulling it free from his toes and dropping it to the floor.

Sherlock couldn’t help it—he laughed, a silent sort of shaking that quickly devolved into hisses through his fingers as he clapped a hand to his mouth to stifle it, turning his face into the duvet.

“What?” John asked, stalling halfway through removing his other sock, and the look of complete confusion on his face was too much for Sherlock, who let his hand fall free, laughing outright now.

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me!?” he spluttered, shaking his head incredulously, and John’s face twisted into a sneer as he flicked Sherlock’s sock away, climbing back up between his knees until he could reach Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s laugh quickly faded against John’s lips, his hand once again lifting to rest in John’s hair, and then inadvertently tugged as one of John’s hands skimmed down his waist, fingertips barely grazing as they rolled over the point of his hip.

He was doing it on purpose, Sherlock was sure, fingers glancing down both thighs, dipping inward and up before sweeping away at the juncture of his groin, and Sherlock was just about to apologize for the sock gibe when John finally gripped his cock, thumb smearing the beaded liquid over the tip before running in a slick stripe down the underside, stopping at the base to press slow circles between Sherlock’s balls.

It hit him all at once then, the reality of the situation, that he was completely naked—socks included—in John Watson’s flat, on John Watson’s bed, and with none other than John Watson. Who wasn’t naked, which was suddenly completely unacceptable.

Sherlock groaned against John’s mouth, haphazardly trying to keep up with John’s tongue and keep his mind from fracturing as he felt his way down John’s chest, finding the waistband on his jeans and tugging with a whine of suggestion.

John chuckled, sliding his lips around Sherlock’s cheek to nip lightly at his jaw. “In a minute,” he assuaged, words a hot breath in Sherlock’s ear, and Sherlock’s fingers clenched into the denim as more of an anchor than a demand now. A soundless shout stretched from his mouth as his neck craned back against the pillow, John’s fingers slipping lower to the smooth patch of skin beneath his balls before running back up, starting a steady slide up and down his cock, thumb gliding over the head with every pass, and it took Sherlock a moment to realize he was the one moaning, John’s laptop on the bedside table not suddenly whirring to life and playing porn.

It only got worse from there—or maybe better, Sherlock wasn’t thinking clearly enough to tell—and, before long, he had dissolved into a twitching pile of nonsensical mumbling, his lips useless whenever John’s found them. At the moment, however, John was at the base of his neck, latching suddenly onto a collarbone and sucking at the skin in tandem with a particularly firm sweep over the tip of Sherlock’s cock, which twitched as Sherlock gasped, lights blinking in front of his eyes as John’s hand smeared the leaking liquid down the shaft.

“John!” he pleaded, halfway warning as his fingers clawed around the man’s tan side, and John eased his hand away, stretching up to plant a firm kiss to Sherlock’s mouth before withdrawing.

It was cold with his absence, Sherlock shivering slightly even the second his weight bobbed off the bed, but then a soft rattle of metal reached his ears, and he pushed up onto his elbows, suddenly alert.

John lifted a brow at him, hands freezing on his half-undone zipper, and then smiled, laughing in soft puffs of air as he shook his head down at his jeans. Two foil packets rested at the corner of the bed, and Sherlock was just making a mental note to ask John how long he’d been carrying _those_ around in his pocket when John tugged his jeans down from his hips, stepping out of the cotton and kicking it aside before toeing off his socks.

Sherlock stared, lips dropping apart as he caught sight of John’s cock, thick and flushed at the tip as it bobbed with his movements. He swallowed, whole body catching fire as John reached down to grab one of the packets from the duvet, tearing it open with his teeth, and Sherlock let out an involuntary squeak at the sight, like the bitten-off beginning of a whine.

John stilled, a single brow lifting all the way into his hair, and he should’ve looked ridiculous, standing there completely naked giving Sherlock silent sass with a piece of a condom packet caught between his teeth, but he didn’t, and Sherlock could only clamp his mouth shut, pointedly turning his head away as his eyeballs threatened to boil in his burning face. John chuckled, moving in Sherlock’s peripheral vision, and then the bed shifted again, and Sherlock looked back, finding John kneeling between his knees, an oddly tormented expression on his face. “I-I feel like I should point this out before it gets weird,” he murmured, dropping his eyes down when Sherlock frowned, and Sherlock followed the gaze, abruptly freezing as his eyes blew wide.

“Holy shit,” he deadpanned, smile rapidly growing to a delirious grin, and then he burst into laughter, clutching his arms around his sides as he wobbled to the side.

John set his jaw, rattling his head in exasperation. “Irene ordered them for the center,” he snapped, but it did nothing to stall the burning building behind Sherlock’s eyes. “They were free!”

“Were they, though?” Sherlock quipped with a patronizing tilt of his head, cackling anew as John glared. “Oh my god!” he gasped, trying to pull air into his lungs. “Oh my god, _rainbow_ condoms!?” he cried, waving a hand down at the latex, the colors blended together in splotches like a haphazard watercolor. “ _Rainbow_!?”

“They were _free_!” John contested again, and Sherlock toppled backwards, head collapsing back into the pillow as his sides ached.

“Oh my _god_!” he laughed, wiping at the tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. “This is the gayest thing that’s ever happened to me!”

“You’re gay.”

“Exactly!” Sherlock exclaimed sitting up and throwing his hands toward John, who simply shook his head, a begrudging smile tugging at his lips as Sherlock continued to laugh.

“Lie the fuck down,” he grumbled, pushing lightly at Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock obediently fell back, laughter slowly waning as he felt John moving between his legs, another crinkle of plastic as the lube packet opened.

He could hear the liquid sliding between John’s fingers, never a pleasant sound, and then, very gently, John hooked a hand under one of his calves, lifting it atop his warm shoulder. “You okay?” he asked, running his fingers up and down Sherlock’s shin as he misinterpreted Sherlock’s shudder, but Sherlock managed to nod, a swallow bobbing down his throat.

Sherlock hadn’t been lying about not being a virgin, sex hardly something he was a stranger to, but it had been a while, and he couldn’t help but jolt as John’s slick finger first swept around his entrance, more of a glide than any sort of pressure.

“We really don’t have to do this,” John assured, thumb stroking softly across Sherlock’s knee. “We can order takeaway, watch some illegally downloaded movies. I think the previous tenants left a Scrabble game somewhere.”

“I don’t want to play Scrabble,” Sherlock replied, chuckling faintly before meeting John’s wary expression with a reassuring smile. “And I might take you up on the takeaway later, but, right now”—he bent his knee slightly, tugging John a few inches closer where his skin caught on his shoulder—“I really wanna put that rainbow condom to good use.”

John rolled his eyes, casting a disparaging look down at Sherlock’s grin, and then smiled, shaking his head in resignation. “Idiot,” he murmured, turning his head to tap a kiss to Sherlock’s ankle, and Sherlock watched the movement as if in slow motion, stunned by the small act of unprecedented tenderness.

A second later, however, his eyes fluttered shut, a gasp whistling over his teeth as John pressed once again at his entrance, fingers growing firmer with every revolution. Sherlock was focused on his breathing, measuring out every inhale and exhale in an effort to relax, but then John’s lips found the inside of his knee, readjusting Sherlock’s leg on his shoulder as he drew closer, and Sherlock lost count, letting his mind drift away on the feeling of John’s finger gently prying him open.

It was an odd sensation, being with John, a sort of familiarity he would have guessed would take months to achieve, but they fell into it all the same, an intrinsic understanding passing between them in hitched breaths and muttered syllables. John pushed and pulled exactly when he needed to, never giving too little or taking too much, and, quite suddenly, Sherlock found himself on the brink, crying out as John’s three fingers crooked unerringly into his prostate.

“John!” he gasped, shouting again as the blond swept over the spot, and then curled his legs around John’s back, trying fruitlessly to pull him closer. “John,” he whined when the man did not immediately comply, and John smiled against his thigh, biting lightly at the skin as he withdrew his fingers.

“Okay, okay!” he urged when Sherlock whined, pulling at him with his legs again, and then chuckled, shaking his head as he coated the exterior of the condom in what was left of the lubricant. “Anyone ever told you you need to work on your patience?”

“I’ve been told it’s not one of my better quali- FUCK!” His hair ground into the pillow as his head snapped back, eyes blinking to clear the stars from his vision as he panted up at the ceiling, legs tight around John’s back as his fingers gripped into the sheets.

John didn’t move, completely still as he allowed Sherlock to adjust to the full length of him, but Sherlock could feel the tension in his muscles, even his breathing tight with restraint. Still, though his fingers shook, he ran a gentle hand down Sherlock thigh, turning his chin to drop a splatter of kisses as low as he could stretch, and Sherlock closed his eyes, focusing on the warmth of John’s skin as he blew out a breath.

Carefully, Sherlock moved, just shifting slightly, testing the feeling of John’s cock inside him and ensuring there was no pain. Emboldened, he gently shifted his hips, thrusting lightly, and John hissed, eyes pinching shut as his fingers dug into the muscle of Sherlock’s thigh. Unseen, Sherlock smiled, sadistically relishing the tormented sight. “You know, when I said I wanted to do this,” he began, and John’s eyes fluttered open, “I didn’t think that meant I’d have to do all the work.” He smirked, and John sneered, and then abruptly snapped his hips, Sherlock’s startled shout quickly fading into a moan as John pulled him forward, draping Sherlock’s legs over his shoulders.

Half of him wanted to demand to know how John was so good at this, the other half wanted to pretend he was the first and only person ever and John was just magic, but, either way, there was no denying John was _very_ good at this, Sherlock having trouble dragging in enough oxygen as John thrust into him. He wasted no time with delicacies, the foreplay portion of the evening pretty thoroughly played out, and Sherlock was babbling within minutes, one hand tangled in the sheets while the other clutched onto John’s hair. He screamed as John struck that spot within him, and then didn’t let up, bending Sherlock further to pound against it with every snap of his hips.

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed, the sensation building to too much, and he tore his hand away from John’s hair, reaching down between them, but John caught his wrist, wrenching it up and pinning it down into the mattress beside his head.

“No,” he panted, shaking his head, and Sherlock was in trouble, so much trouble, trouble he’d forever thank his lucky stars he signed up for. “Not yet.”

Sherlock keened, struggling vainly against John’s hold, his tongue drifting out of contact with his brain as John thrust into him harder and harder, sparks flaring in Sherlock’s abdomen with every strike. “John!” he gasped as he started to shake, his muscles twitching in involuntary spasms as alternating waves of hot and cold raced over him. “John, please. Please, _god_ , John! JOHN!”

John released Sherlock’s hand, dropping down to swallow his scream as his hand wrapped around Sherlock’s cock, stripping it fast and hard as he continued to slam into him, rattling the headboard against the wall, but Sherlock heard none of it, his vision whiting out as he came, glad John’s mouth was over his to muffle truths he wasn’t quite ready to share.

*********

“What does it mean?”

It was well into the next morning, closer to dawn than dusk, and they’d forgone the takeaway, the hassle of getting dressed far too much of a burden to bear. Instead, they’d opted for two of the microwaveable meals John had had in his freezer—Sherlock perched on a chair wearing only boxers and a blanket while he watched John waver between pasta with shrimp or chicken—and then eaten in front of the TV, watching some crap reality show about races Sherlock had barely been paying attention to, simply curling up against John’s side and nodding whenever he said something. Of course, John had caught on, culminating in Sherlock agreeing to several things he had no intention of following through on, but the resultant bickering had somehow brought them back to the bedroom, where they’d wriggled under the blankets, arguing in-between languid slides of tongue and teeth.

Now, however, exhaustion was beginning to creep in, and Sherlock had cradled his head on John’s right shoulder, looking across to the opposite side of his chest where the black scrawl he’d noted earlier was visible, words tattooed in Latin over his left shoulder. Sherlock traced the lines of the script with his fingers, writing out ‘Quo Fata Vocant’ over and over as he listened to the faint thump of John’s heart.

“Hmm?” John hummed, turning his chin down to follow Sherlock’s eyes. “Oh, ‘Whither the Fates call’.”

“No, I know what it _means_ ,” Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes. “I know Latin.”

“Who doesn’t?” John joked, chuckling as Sherlock glared. “It’s the motto of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers,” he explained, looking down his nose toward the tattoo. “Or it was when my grandfather served, at least. He was in World War II.”

Sherlock nodded, hand stilling just beneath the words as he listened.

“He was wounded,” John explained, bending his arm up to tap at the tattoo. “Shot right there. Gran always said that bullet saved his life. Not many more of his unit made it out.”

Sherlock dropped his eyes, lashes grazing against John’s skin as he waited for John to continue, a swallow shifting down the man’s throat.

“They took my sister and I in after Mum died,” he said softly, and Sherlock froze, aware somehow that this story was a privilege granted to very few. “Dad wasn’t ever in the picture,” John added, and then fell silent a moment, Sherlock careful not to move until he cleared his throat. “I got the tattoo after he died,” he continued, briskly changing the subject as he bobbed his shoulder. “Well, as soon as I could after he died. I was still a few years too young.”

Sherlock tilted his head, looking up toward John’s eyes, though they were far away. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and John turned down to him, smiling gently.

“It was a long time ago,” he dismissed, dipping a kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s forehead when he continued to frown. “Oh, I should tell you,” he said, shifting to wrap an arm around Sherlock’s back, “I switched shifts with somebody next week, so I’ve gotta go into the library early tomorrow. Might not be here when you wake up.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” Sherlock challenged, but John only shrugged.

“Exams are coming up; the hours are different,” he explained and Sherlock nodded, pulling the blankets up to his mouth as he yawned. John chuckled, tracing soft patterns over Sherlock’s back. “Go to sleep,” he whispered, but Sherlock shook his head.

“’M not tired,” he mumbled, and John hissed a laugh into his hair.

“Okay,” he breathed, and, though Sherlock thought about retorting, it seemed like a much better idea to close his eyes and try to decipher what John was writing across his skin.

*********

Sherlock rubbed his eyes three times that morning before he believed where he was, and was still surprised when he swung his feet over the edge of the mattress to feel the cold floor, the sensation as real as the slight ache in his spine, and he bit his lip guiltily, remembering how it got there.

John was long-gone, the clock reading 11am, much later than he had _ever_ slept, and the flat was quiet, if a little small.

Sherlock wandered out into the combined living room and kitchen, shivering in nothing but his boxers as he searched around for his jumper, but ended up only finding his white undershirt, that just having to do. Idly, the thought passing across his mind as naturally as a cool spring breeze as he looked over the water-damaged ceiling and worn leather sofa, Sherlock considered that it would probably make the most sense for John to move into 221B if they ever lived together, and he then froze, holding his jeans in his hands as he stared down at the floor with widening eyes. Where the _hell_ had that come from!?

Suddenly, his jeans buzzed in his hand, and he wriggled his mobile from his pocket, finding a text message had just come through. Flipping through the phone with one hand, he wrangled his jeans on with the other, seeing that Molly had left him five messages already, and he swiped her contact name, pinning the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he fastened the trousers.

“You’ve got to stop calling me; I think I’ve been conditioned to think someone’s died.”

“Guess where I am right now?”

“Jail,” Molly suggested flatly, and Sherlock chuckled, turning to look out the window at the hazy grey day.

“Not this time,” he replied, turning back to continue his search for his jumper, and it was then he noticed a plate on the small kitchen table, a folded sheet of notebook paper propped up beside it, his name scrawled across the front.

“Where, then?” Molly asked as Sherlock picked up the page, stretching his fingers as he pushed it open to read the hastily scribbled words.

_Roses are red_  
 _Violets are blue_  
 _I’m pants at poetry_  
 _But French toast I can do!_

_Happy Valentine’s Day!_

_P.S. You snore_

“You have to guess,” Sherlock chuckled, beaming down at his breakfast, which was certainly stone cold by now, but he could always warm it up.

“Prison?”

“Molly.”

“Alright, alright, just gimme a second,” the girl fussed, and Sherlock sank down into the chair, reading the note through again with a stern shake of his head.

He did _not_ snore.

“You’re…at the library?”

“No.”

“At home?”

“Nope.”

“With John?”

“…No.”

“Why did you hesitate?”

“I didn’t hesitate.”

“Yes, you did, that was a hesitant no. Why are you hesitantly not with John?”

“I’m not hesitantly not with- This is a syntactic disaster.”

“Sherlock, where are you?”

Sherlock glanced around the flat, mouth hovering open. “I might be… _at_ John’s.”

Molly was silent a long moment, Sherlock’s face half curled up in a flinch in preparation, until, finally… “You _what_!?”

“He’s not here, though,” Sherlock rushed, and it fell quiet again.

“Sherlock,” Molly said, tight with control, “did you break into John’s house?”

“What!?”

“Just tell me if you did; we’ve all done stupid things because of a crush.”

“No, I- He had to leave! For work! Which he told me last night when he was completely aware of my presence in his flat!”

“Sherlock-”

“I’m serious!” Sherlock blurted, eyes searching frantically around, and then alighted on the letter. “Here, I’ll prove it to you!” he urged, flattening the note on the table as he put Molly on speaker, finding the camera function and lining the lens up. “He left me a note. I’ll take a picture and-and-” He faded off, frowning down at the notebook page, his eyes skittering over the words.

“Sherlock?” Molly’s voice said, tinny in his spinning head as he lifted the note with trembling hands.

The curve on the ‘y’, the eerily straight line of the ‘t’, half the ‘r’s looking like ‘v’s.

“Sherlock, are you there?”

The paper was the same—thin, bargain brand, the blue faded halfway down.

“Sherlock!?”

“Molly,” he said tonelessly, and the girl blew out a gust of relief.

“For the love of- Don’t _do_ that!”

“I have to go.”

“What? Where?”

“The library.”

“The library? Sherlock? Sherlock!? Don’t you hang up on me, you little-”

He tapped the call to a close, leaping from the chair as he searched around the living room for his jumper, the weather far too cold to venture out into with only his t-shirt. The emerald garment remained elusive, however, and he snarled, running his hand back through his hair in frustration. It was then he caught sight of a flash of red on the sofa, the rugby sweatshirt John had offered him last night, and he sighed, shaking his head as he stared it down.

“Of course,” he muttered, but he snatched it up regardless, tugging it over his head as he raced out the door.

*********

John wasn’t at his regular help desk, that being far too simple, so he ran floor-to-floor across the library, note clutched in his hand, startling the few people mad enough to be there on a Saturday afternoon. Finally, rounding a corner on the third floor, he spotted him, an unmistakable glint of gold peeking out from behind a computer screen, and he set his jaw, stomping up to the counter and slamming the page down on the surface.

“Jesus!” John spouted, his chair rolling back as he jumped, his wide eyes quickly creasing with confusion.

“What the hell is this?” Sherlock snapped tartly, tapping a finger down at the paper so hard it hurt a little, but he forced himself to restrain the wince.

John frowned, standing up to scan over the wrinkled notebook page. He then lifted his eyes, looking perplexedly between Sherlock and the words. “Okay, I know that poem was bad, but-”

“No, not the poem!” Sherlock barked, rattling his head. “The paper! The handwriting!”

“I-I don’t-” John stammered, shaking his head, and Sherlock snarled, whipping out his phone and searching through the pictures to find the one he’d sent to Molly of the first secret admirer note.

“This!” he exclaimed, thrusting the image into John’s face, and the blond recoiled a moment before drawing nearer, eyes widening in recognition. “Did you send me this?” Sherlock demanded, and John’s mouth moved silently a moment before he closed it, swallowing as he nodded.

“Yes,” he admitted frailly, and Sherlock blinked, surprised to hear it even though he’d already known. “I was going to tell you,” John insisted, lifting his hands in pleading. “Really, I was, I just- Well, I didn’t know what to do! You were gone that week, and I thought you’d be gone forever, and then, when you came back… I thought it might get you to stay around.”

“I was already staying around!”

“Well, I know that _now_ ,” John muttered sharply, and Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes.

“What about the poem?” he asked, and John tilted his head, brows knitting together.

“Poem?” he echoed, shaking his head. “What poem? You mean that one?” he questioned, pointing to the note on the counter, but Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“No, the Pablo Neruda poem,” Sherlock snipped, patience thinning. “The one you gave me on Thursday.”

John leaned back, eyes scanning over him. “I didn’t give you a poem,” he said warily. “I gave you that book. On Tuesday.”

“No, there was a poem on my notebook on Thursday,” Sherlock insisted, not crazy, no matter how John was looking at him. “Right where you left your other little _note_.”

“Sherlock, I swear,” John urged, and Sherlock’s anger faltered at the blond’s sincere expression, “I didn’t leave you any poem. I wrote you that first note, that’s all.”

Sherlock blinked at him, dropping his eyes to the page still on the counter between them. “But-But you must have,” he pressed, but John only shook his head. “If you didn’t leave it, then who did?” he challenged, and, though John opened his mouth, someone else answered.

“Me.”

They both turned, Molly Hooper rushing up the aisle toward them, ratty orange scarf trailing off her neck behind her.

“I left you the poem,” she panted, out of breath, and Sherlock gaped at her a long moment before closing his mouth, eyes shifting around as he shuffled closer.

“Um, Molly?” he said softly. “I-I thought we’d discussed that I-”

“Yes, I know, you’re still gay,” Molly interjected, rolling her eyes as she unwound her scarf. “I didn’t leave the poem for me; I left it for John.”

“For me?” John broke in, and Sherlock turned around, a quick glance over the man’s face proving he’d never seen Molly before in his life. “Why would you-”

“I knew you’d sent Sherlock the secret admirer note,” Molly explained exasperatedly, batting her scarf at him, “and, after he told me you’d seen him with the Pablo Neruda book, I thought- Well, I thought I’d just make it obvious.” She shrugged, looking desperately to Sherlock. “I didn’t think you’d suspect it was someone in the _café_!” she said, sharp with accusation. “Honestly, who does that?”

“Who hides creepy love notes in other people’s things!?”

“Oi!”

“Not you, yours is different!” Sherlock snapped, waving a hand back at John, and then narrowed his eyes at Molly, pieces slowly but surely falling together. “That’s how you knew I was in the encyclopedias,” he breathed, and Molly guiltily ducked her chin. “You were _spying_ on me!?”

“I wasn’t sure you’d say yes!” Molly defended, stepping forward. “And, predictably, you didn’t.”

“Say yes to _what_!?”

“To the traffic light party!”

“Wait, hang on,” John interjected, lifting a hand as he stepped out from around the counter, moving between them. “How did you know I was gonna ask him to that party? Or that I sent the secret admirer note?” John folded his arms, tilting his head as he awaited an answer, and Molly floundered, mouth flapping as she looked between them.

“That part,” said a voice from behind them, he and John whipping around, “I’m taking the credit for.” Irene Adler leaned against the opposite end of the counter, waggling her fingers at them as she smirked. “Hello, boys! You disappeared awfully early last night,” she chirped with a suggestive flick of her brows, eyes lingering on Sherlock’s sweatshirt he promptly matched the color of.

“ _You_ told her?” John said, stepping toward the woman. “Why? When? How-How do you two even-” He paused, eyes flicking suspiciously between the two women, and, though Irene winked, Molly rolled her eyes.

“Irene and I have a class together,” she explained, waving a hand across at the brunette. “I got talking about my idiot gay friend”—she flicked a gesture at Sherlock—“she got talking about hers-”

“I’m bi,” John interjected, raising a hand, and Irene snorted.

“-and we realized they were the same idiot gay friends,” Molly concluded, whirling her hands in a culminating gesture between them. “She told me you’d written the secret admirer note, I told her you had no idea John had written the secret admirer note, and that’s when we came up with the whole poem thing,” she elaborated with a shrug of her shoulders. “And why she encouraged you to ask Sherlock to the party.”

“I knew you were being too nice about that!” John cried, triumphant, spinning around and jabbing a finger at the woman.

Irene laid a hand over her sternum, blinking coyly. “What are you talking about?” she murmured, tilting her head with a puzzled frown. “I’m always nice.”

John only glared at her, and Irene huffed, rolling her eyes as she pushed off the counter.

“I don’t know what you’re so upset about,” she muttered, twitching a shoulder as she turned her eyes on Sherlock. “Seems like it worked out alright,” she drawled, smirking as she once again levelled a look at the rugby emblem on the front of John’s sweatshirt, and Sherlock glared, folding his arms across his chest to cover it up.

Of course, he’d forgotten Molly was behind him.

“Is that- Are you walk-of-shame-ing it right now?”

“What?!” Sherlock spluttered, rounding on his friend, who was grinning with stunned delight. “No! I- These are different clothes!”

“His clothes,” Molly rebutted, jerking her head toward John, who was being extremely unhelpful, biting back a snort and ducking his head.

“Still, that’s not _technically_ a walk of shame,” Irene said breezily, brushing past him with a smirk as she moved to stand beside Molly. “More like…a strut.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, Irene beaming back at him, and then turned his attention to John, who had lifted the back of his hand to his mouth, shoulders shaking in silent laughter. “What?” Sherlock clipped, tapping out the terminal ‘t’, and John let his hand fall away, laughing outright.

“Oh, come on!” he urged, shaking his head fondly at Sherlock. “This is a little bit hilarious.”

Sherlock folded his arms, tilting his head as he levelled the blond with a glare. “Really?” he hissed. “Do elaborate.”

John, far from being cowed, only chuckled, stepping toward him. “They were only trying to help,” he said softly, waving a hand out at Irene and Molly, who had drifted into a conversation of their own, although still clearly close enough to listen in. “And, besides,” John added, tugging at the strings of Sherlock’s sweatshirt to even them out, “I like your strut of shame.” He grinned, Sherlock trying and failing to keep his lips flat as his cheeks burned, and then finally giving up and ducking his chin, prompting John into laughter.

“I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“No one asked you!” John barked, entire demeanor shifting as he snapped his head to Irene, who rolled her eyes, and Sherlock did laugh at that, shaking his head down at the ground as the absurdity started to sink in.

When he lifted his face again, John was smiling at him, his mouth a gentle curve beneath warm blue eyes.

“I get off at 2,” he said, Irene’s sound of disgust quickly following.

“Too much information.”

“Can we narrow this conversation down to two people, please?” John snapped, waving a hand between his chest and Sherlock’s, and Sherlock laughed, watching as Irene threw her hands in the air, turning around and walking with Molly back toward the stairs. John huffed an exasperated sigh, shaking his head after them, and then looked back to Sherlock, eyebrows lifting expectantly.

Sherlock smiled, eyes following the movement of his shoe as he ground it into the carpet. “I-I think I’m free at 2,” he mumbled, and John beamed.

“Good,” he chirped, and then turned away, returning to his post as Sherlock moved to retrieve his note from the counter, gently folding it and placing it in the pocket of the sweatshirt.

“I was gonna put it back,” he said, tapping a hand to the garment when John gave him a curious look. “I just couldn’t find my jumper, and it was right there, and-”

“Oh no, you’re leaving that on,” John interjected, nodding down at the white logo, his expression slowly curling into a smirk. “I wouldn’t get too attached to anything else, though,” he added, running a scan down Sherlock’s body, and then flicked his brows as his eyes settled back on Sherlock’s, which had gone wide.

Sherlock blinked owlishly at him, heat prickling up his neck, and then he staggered a step back, forcing himself to move as John smile began turning smug. “Right,” he croaked, clearing his throat as he backed away. “I’ll, um- I’ll just-” He bobbed a thumb behind him, no idea what he was going to say next, but John didn’t seem to mind, laughing and smiling at him like he were the most brilliant thing in the world.

“I’ll let you know when I’m done,” he said. “Although, you’re gonna have to text me first,” he added, eyes dropping away a moment before he lifted his phone in the air. “I still don’t have your number.”

“Oh, right,” Sherlock muttered, rattling his head as he pulled his mobile from his jeans. “Yeah, I’ll-I’ll do that,” he promised, pointing a hand out as he walked backwards down one of the aisles, and John chuckled.

“I’ll look forward to it,” he replied, something indefinable in his voice that made Sherlock’s heartbeat instantly leap into his ears.

Not trusting himself to speak, he simply smiled, jerking a nod and turning away before he could do something really humiliating—like stumble backward over a chair or knock down a bookshelf or blurt out that he was half in love already—and made his way down to the bottom level of the library, pushing through the doors and out into the fresh air before his head was clear enough to manage a text. Even then, it took him three tries to get the wording right, not entirely certain what was appropriate for your first text to someone you’d already slept with.

_This is my number  
SH_

**_ You sign your text messages? _ **

_I didn’t know if you’d know it was from me._

**_ Fair enough. Hey, any chance you could do another lap of the third floor so I can watch you walk away again? _ **

Sherlock laughed, clapping a hand to his mouth and bowing his head in apology to an elderly couple he startled on his way by.

Yes, he was in trouble. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.


End file.
